Always Remembered
by branloaf
Summary: A short oneshot about Katherine of Aragon as she reflects on her life on her deathbed. Some Anne Boleyn hate. First Tudor fic.


_Disclaimer: I don't own The Tudors or history. (Except for my own xD)_

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I lay in my bed, my breaths becoming slower and weaker, my ladies all gathered around me. I knew I didn't have much longer left until God decided it was His time to gather my soul. I closed my eyes and ignored one of my ladies telling me to keep them open. I thought of my beautiful daughter, Mary, and all of the memories I have of being with her. We could still be together at this moment only if God had decided to keep my precious son with me, and if Anne Boleyn had stayed away from the English Court.

My dear son, Prince Henry; he was taken away from me too early. There was such joy and celebration from his birth, and it was such a relief to have a live babe – a boy – after the loss of my first child through a miscarriage. The King was so proud to call me his Queen and I felt then that we were going to be the start of a long line of successful Tudor kings.

That was until he died.

I will never forget the date, no matter how much longer I shall live. 23rd February 1511. God took my precious son away from me and the kingdom was thrown into grief. However, that may not have even been the worst part of it, for that may be the fact that the King blamed me for it. How could I have been at fault for the death of my special babe? He was a healthy young boy; I had a good pregnancy, and it was a quick and easy birth. This death wasn't my fault. But Henry thought otherwise.

I don't think Henry and I experienced true happiness in our marriage after that; not even when Mary was born. I tried to give the King an heir, but I do not do the work of God. I cannot decide what I give him. Henry however doesn't see that. All he saw was Anne Boleyn. As soon as he realised I was too old to conceive another child for him, he turned his eyes straight towards her and never looked back. My sweet daughter thrown to the sidelines, no longer thought of as the Kings heir when he made his own church and declared that I was never truly married to him, although I was. How could he have never felt the passion and love between us in the first few years of our marriage? I can remember it like it was yesterday. Unfortunately, that passed not long after I failed to give the King a living son for the second or third time. After that, every time he bedded me, it was just in the hope that God was on our side and would grant us the gift of a living male heir. I wasn't stupid. I knew he had mistresses lined up for him wanting to give him what apparently I couldn't. The birth of his bastard son in 1518 wasn't much of a surprise for me. I was waiting for a bastard child to appear.

When my daughter was born two years prior to that, Henry told me that this was God's sign that sons would follow, but I knew he was lying. He could tell that I was reaching the end of my childbearing years, and was probably just saying it to keep me in good spirits, and I didn't need him to do that. I had a healthy living child, and from the moment she was born, I imagined her becoming a great Queen, the first in her own right, and possibly a consort to Portugal or France.

But now she is just 'Lady Mary' and a slave to the daughter of Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth, if what my ladies are telling me is correct. How can this be? Mary was Henry's cherished daughter, his heir. But now she is nineteen and still not married. She could be a queen consort of another kingdom, having her own children, but Henry has refused to let her go. I don't see why; he's let go of everything else that came from our marriage.

I have changed so much since I have arrived in England; I have been a Princess, a widow, a Queen, a wife, and mother, and now Henry wants me to accept being a Dowager Queen. I, however, will not accept this title, for I deserve much more. I shall never be deemed a failure as a wife or a queen. I do not decide whether the king shall have a son or daughter, nor do I decide whether it gets the gift of surviving.

All my achievements have been pushed aside by Anne Boleyn. What has she done? Spoke a little French and learned how to seduce a man. Well done. I am the daughter of two of the most powerful people in Europe; Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile, and I am the queen of England. My glory shall out live hers for centuries to come. However, if I am unlucky enough to not receive this gratitude, I pray that there shall be another woman out there to follow her when the king bores of her and throws her away. Someone who shall fight for what I believed in; my daughter, the Catholic Church, and the trueness of my marriage to Henry. She shall be a saint in my eyes, and shall do whatever I have failed in, which, for all I see, is to give the king a son.

When this day arrives, I know that all that I have spent my life doing will have been worth it. Henry will restore Mary to the succession and return to the Pope. All will be as it should be. Anne Boleyn will be forgotten. I shall be remembered.

I _shall_ be remembered.

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 **A/N: I haven't written any fanfiction for a while, and this is my first one for the Tudors. I started writing this only because I was bored, and it turned into this… I know that I exaggerated a bit on the mistresses, but… eh. I don't know how I started talking about Jane Seymour at the end… I just did.**

 **P.S: No, I don't hate Anne Boleyn, I was only talking about her that way because this is Katherine of Aragon. While I don't despise her, I don't really jump up and down defending her either though, so…**


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